"Remembrance" - a Sherlock fanfic
Rating: PG
Word count: 525
Pairing: none
Summary: Sherlock needs comfort from a friend after a massive loss. Originally written for johnlockchallenges for obscurelongname on tumblr.
Draped over the sofa, Sherlock plunges the morphine into his system, the bite from the needle overtaken by a cool rush of chemicals. The drugs flood his brain, wiping out the dull white noise that consumed his thoughts. His mind is cleansed and polished, his senses racing with new information. Everything around him seemed renewed with sparkling clarity instead of the same old, same old.
The illusion breaks with the sound of hurried footsteps crossing the room. A worried hand brushes his forehead while another traces his arm, stopping at the red kisses left by the needles. Sherlock doesn't bother hiding them; the other man would find it eventually.
The man sighs tiredly; he's in no mood for another lecture. Instead, he sits on the coffee table, slouched over. He looks as if he has aged twenty years since they first met. “You can't keep doing this, Sherlock,” the man says.
Sherlock ignores him, his mind still buzzing in drug-induced clarity.
“Sherlock, listen to me,” urges the other man. He curses under his breath. He knows he's fighting a losing battle. He has been ever since, ever since.
“I'm perfectly fine,” Sherlock mumbles, the air of boredom seeping into his mind.
“I'm not going to watch you kill yourself because of-” The man stopped and sighed.
Sherlock doesn't bother to ask what the man meant. He already knew, of course he does. It's his job to know and memorize every detail like a machine. But sometimes, sometimes.
Sometimes he wishes to forget.
“Sherlock, I know you just lost your friend, someone you cared about....”
“Care,” Sherlock murmurs, recalling his brother's advice.
Caring is not an advantage.
How foolish of him to challenge that.
“...but you can't keep doing this to yourself,” the man continues. “He was a good man, Sherlock. A really good man. And he wouldn't want you to do this to yourself.”
Sherlock scoffs, the concern in the other man's voice irritating him. There is a buzzing inside his head, a low hum. A flat?
“Sherlock. Sherlock, can you hear me?”
Sherlock grunts, turning away from the other man and covering his eyes with his arm. The lights seem too bright, too bright.
“Sherlock, please. Please stop. He trusted you, depended on you. Needed you. And now that he's gone you can't just shut everyone else out. We still need you, Sherlock. I need you.”
The buzzing in his mind stops. Sherlock removes his arm, squinting as his eyes adjust to the light. He turns to face the other man. He notices the man's posture, the puffy dark rings under his eyes. He notices, how could he not have noticed before?
How could he have forgotten?
“I'm sorry,” replied Sherlock. “I'm sorry John.”
John sighed, “I know, Sherlock. We lost a good friend.”
“Lestrade was a good detective,” Sherlock admitted.
John smiled, “He was, wasn't he? He was a fine detective.”
They spent the rest of the night like that, chatting about their shared loss. Perhaps, if it was a different universe at a different time, the situation would have changed slightly.
But the memories would come. They always come.
Sherlock always remembers.
Word count: 525
Pairing: none
Summary: Sherlock needs comfort from a friend after a massive loss. Originally written for johnlockchallenges for obscurelongname on tumblr.
Draped over the sofa, Sherlock plunges the morphine into his system, the bite from the needle overtaken by a cool rush of chemicals. The drugs flood his brain, wiping out the dull white noise that consumed his thoughts. His mind is cleansed and polished, his senses racing with new information. Everything around him seemed renewed with sparkling clarity instead of the same old, same old.
The illusion breaks with the sound of hurried footsteps crossing the room. A worried hand brushes his forehead while another traces his arm, stopping at the red kisses left by the needles. Sherlock doesn't bother hiding them; the other man would find it eventually.
The man sighs tiredly; he's in no mood for another lecture. Instead, he sits on the coffee table, slouched over. He looks as if he has aged twenty years since they first met. “You can't keep doing this, Sherlock,” the man says.
Sherlock ignores him, his mind still buzzing in drug-induced clarity.
“Sherlock, listen to me,” urges the other man. He curses under his breath. He knows he's fighting a losing battle. He has been ever since, ever since.
“I'm perfectly fine,” Sherlock mumbles, the air of boredom seeping into his mind.
“I'm not going to watch you kill yourself because of-” The man stopped and sighed.
Sherlock doesn't bother to ask what the man meant. He already knew, of course he does. It's his job to know and memorize every detail like a machine. But sometimes, sometimes.
Sometimes he wishes to forget.
“Sherlock, I know you just lost your friend, someone you cared about....”
“Care,” Sherlock murmurs, recalling his brother's advice.
Caring is not an advantage.
How foolish of him to challenge that.
“...but you can't keep doing this to yourself,” the man continues. “He was a good man, Sherlock. A really good man. And he wouldn't want you to do this to yourself.”
Sherlock scoffs, the concern in the other man's voice irritating him. There is a buzzing inside his head, a low hum. A flat?
“Sherlock. Sherlock, can you hear me?”
Sherlock grunts, turning away from the other man and covering his eyes with his arm. The lights seem too bright, too bright.
“Sherlock, please. Please stop. He trusted you, depended on you. Needed you. And now that he's gone you can't just shut everyone else out. We still need you, Sherlock. I need you.”
The buzzing in his mind stops. Sherlock removes his arm, squinting as his eyes adjust to the light. He turns to face the other man. He notices the man's posture, the puffy dark rings under his eyes. He notices, how could he not have noticed before?
How could he have forgotten?
“I'm sorry,” replied Sherlock. “I'm sorry John.”
John sighed, “I know, Sherlock. We lost a good friend.”
“Lestrade was a good detective,” Sherlock admitted.
John smiled, “He was, wasn't he? He was a fine detective.”
They spent the rest of the night like that, chatting about their shared loss. Perhaps, if it was a different universe at a different time, the situation would have changed slightly.
But the memories would come. They always come.
Sherlock always remembers.